Another noteworthy and inevitable effect is the confusion of meanings, origins, and attributes, etc., of words when they are written without vowels, in which regard see what I have said pp. 1283, end–84, beginning. Everyone knows just how many words in Hebrew Scripture with completely different meanings, and according to whether they are held to be of completely different origin and roots, or the same in meaning but with completely different roots, written without vowels, are exactly the same as one another, and cannot be differentiated except by the sense. Just imagine how much confusion that must have produced, and must still produce, how many ambiguities, and how many doubts, and how many words that are believed to be convincingly explained and convincingly differentiated by means of vowel signs inserted subsequently must in reality have signified something completely different, and have had wholly different vowels when uttered. This is the reason why in the [1290] Hebrew text Hermeneutics encounters dilemmas, trilemmas, and even quadrilemmas at every step, and when it comes to the plain, literal interpretation present-day Jews themselves and the old Doctors of that nation were and still are a thousand miles apart from each other. See just how much damage is done to the preservation of the ancient language and to the understanding of the forms of meaning, etc., of the ancient words by the manner of writing we have described.
And that is not all. Since Easterners had written for so long without vowels, it must follow that the true, very ancient pronunciation of their words and languages, in regard to vowel sounds, that is, the primary and essential part of the pronunciation, is for the most part lost. And this natural opinion is confirmed when we see that many, indeed almost all the Hebrew words or proper names that passed in earlier times into other languages, were and are pronounced, as far as the vowels are concerned, quite differently from the way in which they read in the Masoretic Hebrew Scriptures, that is, as furnished with vowel signs, invented (according to the best Critics) at a very late period, like the accents and breathings added to the Greek script in later times. (Moréri concludes, on the authority of Calmet, Prideaux, Vossius, and of other, still more learned scholars, that this invention was around the ninth century, and that before then there was no sign for vowels in the Hebrew script.)1 And note first of all that I am referring to vowels, since [1291] so far as consonants are concerned, the writing and pronunciation of Hebrew names and words in other languages generally agrees with that of the Masoretic Bible. This fact serves as proof of my argument, since it shows that the diversity in the pronunciation of vowels does not derive from the corruption suffered by those words and names as they passed into other languages, but from the actual difference between the Masoretic pronunciation, that is, the modern Hebrew pronunciation of the vowels, and the ancient pronunciation of them. And that such a difference should be ascribed to the imperfection of the ancient Hebrew script lacking vowels, etc. Second, note that it is for the most part a question of proper names, which, as they pass into other languages, tend naturally to retain their shape and national pronunciation better than any other kind of word. (7 July 1821.)
The sight of a cheerful man full of some piece of good fortune, some benefit gained, some pleasure received, etc., or even moderately affected by it, is for the most part extremely irritating not only to people who are suffering, or melancholic, or not much given to joyfulness in deed or [1292] by habit, but also to people whose attitude is indifferent, and who are not damaged in any way or overwhelmed by such prosperity. This even happens with friends, close relatives, etc., and the man who has cause for joy must either conceal it or display it with a measure of unconcern, indifference, and wit, since otherwise his presence and his conversation will always prove odious and burdensome, even to those who should delight in his good fortune or who have no cause for complaint. Such, indeed, is the practice of thoughtful men, of men who are masters of themselves and who are well-mannered. What can this mean but that our self-love inevitably leads us, and without our realizing it, to the hatred of others? What is certain is that in the above case, even the best of men needs to muster some force against himself, and a degree of heroism, in order to share in another’s delight from which he anticipates no benefit or harm, or simply in order not to be burdened by it. (8 July 1821.)
For p. 1242. It is no wonder, then, that the Italian language is deemed to be the richest of the modern languages. (Monti.)1 I have already shown how the true source of the wealth of the ancient languages consists in their great capacity for forming derivatives and compounds, and how this is the principal source of the wealth of any language, and a language that has none or few of them can never be rich. We have already seen, and the point could be demonstrated a thousand times over, that the Italian [1293] language—whose capacity for forming compounds cannot match that of Greek and Latin (a fault more our own than that of the language)—has a capacity for forming derivatives, and has so far managed to put that capacity to use in such a way, that it wins out over those other languages rather than being vanquished by them. It would therefore be true to say that Italian is the richest of the modern languages. And this superiority, which once was real (and for the reasons given), will not pass as a number of others have done, so long as we do not deprive it of the capacities that produce it, that alone can be its main producer, and that at the same time are characteristic of its temperament. That is, if we do not deprive it of the capacity to create new compounds and derivatives and undo what our ancestors did. For preventing a language (and this the effect of a constant law) from continuing to exercise the generative capacities given it by those who formed it is the same as stripping it of them, and therefore is called destroying, not preserving the work of our forebears.
Expand this last thought, by demonstrating how wishing to deprive language of the exercise of its creative capacities, those characteristic of its temperament, is precisely the opposite of what is usually believed, that is, it entails distancing it from its temperament and from its original condition instead of maintaining it. The original condition of the language was to be alive: now is this turning it into something that is [1294] absolutely dead to be called preserving it as it was, and as its creators transmitted it to us? Therefore, preserving a word, a form, a meaning, an ancient sound, etc., and banishing a barbarous word or expression, an incorrect spelling, a wrongly applied meaning, etc., all particular and accidental factors, and having to do with what is most mutable, all of this is to be called preserving the language. And divesting it of its general, essential, and immutable capacities will not be called ruining it or altering it, but rather preserving it? I say immutable, until such a time as it wholly changes its nature, and becomes dead rather than living. The only immutable things in language are the capacities that constitute its character, which is likewise immutable. The words, the expressions, the meanings, the spellings, the inflections, etc., nothing of all this is immutable, but by their very nature wholly subject to usage. So that our valiant purists want to make the mortal part of the language eternal, and to destroy the immortal part, or the part that ought to be such, unless you want to change the language. And the use of such creative capacities, which I call immortal, must be perpetual for so long as a language lives, precisely because novelty in things and ideas (which the language serves) [1295] is perpetual. For if it were not perpetual, the language could then lose these capacities, and live in the condition of dead languages. But novelty in things being perpetual, a language cannot, I repeat, be preserved without maintaining its original creative capacities in their entirety, and divesting it of these is tantamount to reducing it of necessity to barbarism. For, whether barbarous or not, so long as it is spoken and written, it cannot die. And if it is not able to live in its original state, that is, it is unable—as long as novelty in things continues—to go on expressing them by means of its own production, it will live in barbarism. (8 July 1821.)
For p. 1138, end, add—(4) The Latin language produced three daughters that are still living, which we ourselves speak, and the antiquity, origins, progre
ss, etc., of which, from their beginnings up until today are known or can be known very well or can be known even better. Which, in short, is tantamount to saying that the Latin language is still living. And study of the above languages, if conducted in a due scholarly fashion, could and can lead us to discover very many properties of the very earliest Latin language that could not be deduced from the Latin writers, or not so well. This is attributable to the boundless tenacity of the [1296] common people, who through their everyday speech have retained and still retain in everyday use (and have also introduced into written texts) many very ancient features of the Latin language, from the very first beginnings of the language up until the present day, as I will demonstrate when discussing ancient Vulgar Latin. So that the comparative study of the three modern Latin languages, if done with greater care than has hitherto been taken, and with a greater concern to discover the antiquities of the maternal tongue, can lead us to know Latin things of great antiquity and from the beginnings or nearly so. The comparative study of spoken Greek, by contrast, cannot be achieved, although the Greek language lives in the same fashion as does Latin. Apart from the fact that it is not so easy to attain as good a knowledge of modern Greek, its origin, development, and, in general, the history of the Greek language from a specific period onward, as it is to know what we may call modern Latin, and the history of the Latin language from its formation and literature up until the present day, as I shall explain below.
From these considerations it follows first that the Latin language is not only known to us [1297] through written texts and literature—things which disfigure to the utmost the origins of any language, as I said a few pages back, when discussing the causes of alterations in languages—but also through the living language, which is always influenced by the usage of ancient speakers much more than that of ancient writers, a language spoken every day in the middle of Europe, and in a large part of Europe besides, and known everywhere, and especially to ourselves who speak and write it. This cannot be said of any other ancient language.
Second, it follows from these considerations that we are able to know the vicissitudes of the Latin language and its words almost perfectly (especially in comparison with any other language), and to construct a history of the language and Latin words that is (generally speaking) almost perfect, almost complete, without any gaps, from the very first beginnings of its literature up until the present day, that is, ranging across twenty whole centuries. (Plautus died in 184 before J.C.) One cannot say as much of any other Western language, apart from Greek, knowledge about which, and the history of which, is, however, subject to the difficulties mentioned on p. 1296, and study of the Eastern languages, even though they can be traced back to a more remote epoch, is subject to many more, and far [1298] greater difficulties. The ancient Teutonic language has indeed produced more languages than Latin, namely, English, German, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, Swiss, etc. (Staël),1 but is itself all but unknown. Likewise the ancient Illyrian language, the mother of Russian, Polish, and others. Little is known of the Celtic language for its part, and it does not live on in any modern language.
In short, of all the ancient languages Latin is the one whose history can be known best and across the longest span of time, and whose original attributes can consequently be best investigated. For it is the archaeologist’s task to work back from the history he can know, etc., of those twenty centuries to that of the centuries that went before. Nor does he want for copious factual information that would be sufficient in itself to push this history far beyond that era, although less perfectly and completely for the time up until that era, that is, the second century before Christ, the century of Plautus.
Add the Wallachian language,2 also derived from Latin, which, because it has always remained coarse, is ideal for giving us very important information about ancient Vulgar Latin, which like all other vulgar tongues is [1299] the main preserver of the antiquities of a language. Add the vernacular dialects derived from Latin, like the various dialects into which the Italian language is divided. These have likewise remained in a more or less unrefined state, as is natural in a language not applied to literature, or not sufficiently, and as is natural in a very popular language. For these reasons, they are all the closer to their original state. And many of their words, phrases, etc., do indeed turn out to be derived from very ancient origins. What has been lost, e.g., in the ordinary Italian language, or in one or other of the Italian vernaculars, or has been altered, etc., has been preserved in some other vernacular, etc. And the comparative study of them must be of the utmost value in the study of the modern Latin languages, which is designed to discover the unknown and original properties of ancient Latin. Also add the Portuguese language, a very considerable dialect of the Spanish.
(5) Cultured Latin is indisputably less various, more regular, more ordered, and more perfect even than cultured Greek. It is easy to see just how much this helps and facilitates the search for uncultured Latin. It is easier to see, discover, and advance in order than in disorder. Once you have opened a road in the Latin language, this on its own will lead you, and directly, to the discovery of countless of its old words. The formation of words in the Latin language, the construction of derivatives and compounds, is for the most part utterly regular, orderly, and uniform [1300] within the limits of each kind. Once you have found, and become thoroughly familiar with one kind of derivative in Latin, all or almost all of that same kind will be formed in precisely the same way, and according to the same rule, and from all of them you can also go back to the roots. See what we have observed about continuatives and frequentatives, two kinds of derived words, most regularly and uniformly formed, from each of which one can also work one’s way back up to the original word. Once the precise manner of such a formation has been established, and as we ourselves have established it, this road alone leads us without effort to a very broad and fruitful field. Indeed, it is virtually a gate opening directly onto it.
That is not for the most part what happens with Greek, which is so much more varied, discordant with itself in its formations, and in every other kind of matter—not to the detriment (indeed, to the benefit) of beauty—so much less regular and analogous, for the multiplicity of rules, like their scarcity, is nothing other than irregularity. Both alike demonstrate the copiousness and superabundance of exceptions. Anyone wishing to reduce them to rules necessarily multiplies the rules beyond all measure, anyone seeking not to suffer this hindrance must perforce establish [1301] a few, broad rules, such as could allow room for many differences, and account for them, and, in short, one should stick to universals, because the particulars clash too frequently. And this is what happens with Greek grammar where some have a superabundance of rules, and make it seem extremely complicated, and others have a paucity, and make it seem extremely simple. The Latin language sits right in the middle of these two extremes, as regards rules of every kind. (I do indeed mean from among the languages of the ancient kind, and not of the modern kind, which are so much more philosophically constituted, as is only natural.) That is to say, inasmuch as it is the easiest language to dissect, and to consider part by part. But with Greek you have to open up a new road at every stroke, and any rule or manner of forming words, etc., that you have discovered will serve for no more than a few words, etc. etc. (8–9 July 1821.)
For pp. 936–38. Also observe anyone who is coarse or unaccustomed to fine speaking and the language of polite conversation, anyone who has not much practice or resource in language or little experience or skill in finding the right words when speaking (that is, the majority of men), or again well-spoken people in a situation in which they do not have to reflect too much while speaking, or when they are speaking coarsely on purpose or in an offhand manner, or sometimes outside such a situation, and even in the midst of polite conversation, or, finally, people who have a certain forcefulness, vivacity, promptitude, or insubordination of imagination. You will easily be able to see [1302] that everyone, or nearly everyone, has words that
are particular (not derivatives or compounds, but brand new) and entirely their own, which they have the habit of using regularly when they need to express a particular thing and which can only be understood from the sense of what they are saying, and are generally taken from a resemblance or an imitation of the thing that they want to signify. So it can be said that each man’s language differs in some regard from that of others. Indeed, one man’s language very often differs from itself, for there is no one who does not sometimes use words of this kind, not as a matter of habit, but on that one occasion (whatever the reason, and the reasons can be very different), regardless of whether they have the equivalent word that could be employed in the language which they know and use. (9 July 1821.)
A portrait, even if a very good likeness (indeed, especially when it is such), not only tends to have a greater impact upon us than the person depicted (which comes from the surprise that derives from imitation, and the pleasure that comes from the surprise), but, if I may so put it, that same person has a greater impact upon us painted than [1303] real, and we find them more beautiful if they are beautiful, or conversely, etc. If for no other reason than because when seeing that person, we see them in an ordinary way, and seeing the portrait, we see the person in an extraordinary way, which increases unbelievably the acuteness of our organs in observing and reflecting, and the attention and power of our mind and faculties, and generally greatly enhances our sensations, etc. (Observe in this regard what a French stenographer says about the greater enjoyment he used to take in reading the classics he had written down in shorthand.) Gravina makes a similar observation regarding the pleasure engendered by poetic imitation.1 (9 July 1821.)
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